original by moveablehistory
Remix Title: Hanging out the window with a bottle full of rain
Remix Author: elohvee
Original Story: The High Cost of Living
Original Author: moveablehistory
Rating: PG
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: Afternoons, Dean sits on the porch, the peeling white veranda that wraps the house on three sides. He stares out at the horizon, growing darker every day. Always darker, until even the newscasters clue into something wrong.
Warnings: Incest, s2 finale spoilers.
There is a story here. One that might never be told, after this.
They sit in the sand and grains of it dig into their palms, sting their eyes when they reach to wipe tired sweat from their faces.
They watch the half-there figures of children, stop-jump-running, jerky and blinking like lightning and old film. They build castles in the sand and scurry back from the waves like rats.
"This is normal?" Dean spits out finally, an angry hand out to sweep the beach, pointing. "You can't tell me nothing's wrong."
Sam shrugs, shoulders hunched, digging letters into the sand with a stick. "It's not like the sea's boiling." He writes their names. Dean. Sam. "There's no rain of frogs. Not like the dead are breaking out of their graves. It's just... it's just a loop." John. Jess. Mary. "Who's to say it hasn't always been like this?"
Dean pushes himself up off the ground and slaps his palms together, brushing the sand away.
"Something had to set it off."
::
They find a place. Three months in, they find a safe place.
Looping, cutting railroad tracks, miles of deadened farmland and a tired little house right in the middle of it.
Sam circles the property for three days, checking for any cracks. "This is going to work," he promises. "It worked before. We're going to be okay."
He spent the past three months looking.
Dean frowns. "This is the plan? Keep me cooped up until that bitch finds a way to get in? There's a war going on and you expect me to stay here?"
Sam smiles. Crooked, soft. "Yeah," he says. "That's what I expect you to do."
::
They stay.
This part of the country, nobody goes to visit the two guys living together and alone, scared like they might catch something if they do. They don't step beyond the broken fence at the south end or the property line to the north.
Bobby sends them heavy old books by the crate. He calls any time he finds something. Anything. Sam goes over every word of every page, often more than once, convinced he's missed it somehow, that miracle that makes it all go away.
Afternoons, Dean sits on the porch, the peeling white veranda that wraps the house on three sides. He stares out at the horizon, growing darker every day. Always darker, until even the newscasters clue into something wrong.
"It's happening," he says when Sam sits down beside him, holding two beers. "We shouldn't be here, Sammy. Dad didn't teach us to hide."
Sam knocks the cap off his bottle on the banister, catches in his palm, squeezes it tight so when he lets go, Dean can see where the little metal ridges pressed into his flesh.
"We'll get there," he says, his other hand low on Dean's back, like comfort through his shirt and the calluses on Sam's hands. "Just give me time."
::
Hand on Sam's shoulder, thumb tracing the neckline of his shirt. "Come to bed, Sammy."
There's a lightning storm outside the window, just beyond the tracks. They never come closer. Sam doesn't look up from his books.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, in a minute."
"Heard that one before," Dean mutters, dropping his hand, heaving a sigh. He leaves the room and slams the door, but he doesn't think Sam notices.
::
He tries to leave once, just for a little while, just to see something that isn't this muddy old farmland, that isn't the fog hanging low on the ground in the mornings or the fireflies lazy in the tall grasses at night.
Sam stops him before he gets fifteen feet, knocks him out with one blow. Dean wakes up leaned back against the rough wooden siding of the house, Sam sitting beside him with a melting ice pack in one hand, watching the falling rain.
"You can't," he says, not even looking to see if Dean's really awake. "You can't leave, you hear me? She'll know by now something's up. You've got to stay."
Dean huffs, angry, rubbing the lump forming at the back of his head. "I'm not the fucking damsel in distress, Sam. I don't need an ivory tower."
Sam drops the ice on the ground. The plastic bag gets caught on a twisting, rusty nail and rips, spilling cold water over the planks.
His fingers are wet and cold when he touches Dean's cheek. "Please," he says, and he waits for the wisecrack, but Dean only heaves a sigh and nods, dropping his head back against the wall.
"Okay?"
"Yeah, Sammy. Okay."
::
They run in the dark. Once, twice. No more than that, but those times, they let loose, laughing and yelling like children. They race around the house, to the crumbling barn, chase each other to the fence and back, stumbling and rolling in the overgrown grass, their breath heavy and the air summer-wet.
They trip and fall, scrape their palms and let pebbles dig into their backs. Sam grips his brother's shirt in one dirty hand, too tight, pulling him in.
"Wait," he whispers against Dean's jaw, and outside the tracks, the thunder cracks and sparks.
"Wait."
It's the best they can do.
::
Jo comes to visit once. Says she got the address from Bobby, and she brings them hard liquor and porn, hands it over in a brown paper bag without a word, just a smile. Dean stares at her, open-mouthed, like she's the most considerate, kind-hearted person he's ever met in his life.
They sit out on the porch, feet dangling over the edge in places where the railing's been torn off and away.
"You going crazy yet?"
"Fuck," he laughs, spreading his hands. It's not an answer, but she gets it. She nudges the bottle of Jack across the curling wood and into his hand.
She shrugs her shoulders. "It's all going to be over, soon."
He drinks. Lets it burn his throat. He cranes his neck when he swallows, throws his head back so he can see the light in the bedroom window. He thinks he can hear the turning pages of old books.
"Yeah," he agrees, setting the bottle down with a thick clunk. "One way or another."
::
When it gets close, Sam won't let him say goodbye.
He spends that last week cutting Dean off every time he opens his mouth. Shoving a drink in his hands across the table, pushing him up against the wall and pulling at his shirt. Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't call him on it.
"S'gonna be okay," Sam tells him, over and over, hot against the shell of his ear. "I promise. I promise. I'll work out fine."
::
Dean wakes on the last day to an empty house and a missing car.
Sam comes back past midnight, bleeding and sweaty, out of breath and leaning on Bobby for support as he stumbles up the crooked steps.
"It's done," he says, and he spits into the dying, trampled grass by the walk. He smiles, blood in his teeth. "We sent her back where she belongs. It's over."
Over. The same thing they've said so many times before, pushing and shoving and pulling together, skin spit blood, that desperate need to know, alive alive alive. Same reassurances, same promises, but Dean shakes his head, smile splitting open and a laugh rolling on through.
"No," he says, eyes fixed on the window, grinning. "It's starting."
::
They leave the very next day. Pack up their few belongings in the trunk of the car and go.
The car shudders over the railroad tracks and then smoothes out once they hit the pavement, flat and open.
On the horizon, splinters of lightning rip open the heavy grey morning.
They drive.
Remix Author: elohvee
Original Story: The High Cost of Living
Original Author: moveablehistory
Rating: PG
Pairings: Sam/Dean
Summary: Afternoons, Dean sits on the porch, the peeling white veranda that wraps the house on three sides. He stares out at the horizon, growing darker every day. Always darker, until even the newscasters clue into something wrong.
Warnings: Incest, s2 finale spoilers.
There is a story here. One that might never be told, after this.
They sit in the sand and grains of it dig into their palms, sting their eyes when they reach to wipe tired sweat from their faces.
They watch the half-there figures of children, stop-jump-running, jerky and blinking like lightning and old film. They build castles in the sand and scurry back from the waves like rats.
"This is normal?" Dean spits out finally, an angry hand out to sweep the beach, pointing. "You can't tell me nothing's wrong."
Sam shrugs, shoulders hunched, digging letters into the sand with a stick. "It's not like the sea's boiling." He writes their names. Dean. Sam. "There's no rain of frogs. Not like the dead are breaking out of their graves. It's just... it's just a loop." John. Jess. Mary. "Who's to say it hasn't always been like this?"
Dean pushes himself up off the ground and slaps his palms together, brushing the sand away.
"Something had to set it off."
::
They find a place. Three months in, they find a safe place.
Looping, cutting railroad tracks, miles of deadened farmland and a tired little house right in the middle of it.
Sam circles the property for three days, checking for any cracks. "This is going to work," he promises. "It worked before. We're going to be okay."
He spent the past three months looking.
Dean frowns. "This is the plan? Keep me cooped up until that bitch finds a way to get in? There's a war going on and you expect me to stay here?"
Sam smiles. Crooked, soft. "Yeah," he says. "That's what I expect you to do."
::
They stay.
This part of the country, nobody goes to visit the two guys living together and alone, scared like they might catch something if they do. They don't step beyond the broken fence at the south end or the property line to the north.
Bobby sends them heavy old books by the crate. He calls any time he finds something. Anything. Sam goes over every word of every page, often more than once, convinced he's missed it somehow, that miracle that makes it all go away.
Afternoons, Dean sits on the porch, the peeling white veranda that wraps the house on three sides. He stares out at the horizon, growing darker every day. Always darker, until even the newscasters clue into something wrong.
"It's happening," he says when Sam sits down beside him, holding two beers. "We shouldn't be here, Sammy. Dad didn't teach us to hide."
Sam knocks the cap off his bottle on the banister, catches in his palm, squeezes it tight so when he lets go, Dean can see where the little metal ridges pressed into his flesh.
"We'll get there," he says, his other hand low on Dean's back, like comfort through his shirt and the calluses on Sam's hands. "Just give me time."
::
Hand on Sam's shoulder, thumb tracing the neckline of his shirt. "Come to bed, Sammy."
There's a lightning storm outside the window, just beyond the tracks. They never come closer. Sam doesn't look up from his books.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, in a minute."
"Heard that one before," Dean mutters, dropping his hand, heaving a sigh. He leaves the room and slams the door, but he doesn't think Sam notices.
::
He tries to leave once, just for a little while, just to see something that isn't this muddy old farmland, that isn't the fog hanging low on the ground in the mornings or the fireflies lazy in the tall grasses at night.
Sam stops him before he gets fifteen feet, knocks him out with one blow. Dean wakes up leaned back against the rough wooden siding of the house, Sam sitting beside him with a melting ice pack in one hand, watching the falling rain.
"You can't," he says, not even looking to see if Dean's really awake. "You can't leave, you hear me? She'll know by now something's up. You've got to stay."
Dean huffs, angry, rubbing the lump forming at the back of his head. "I'm not the fucking damsel in distress, Sam. I don't need an ivory tower."
Sam drops the ice on the ground. The plastic bag gets caught on a twisting, rusty nail and rips, spilling cold water over the planks.
His fingers are wet and cold when he touches Dean's cheek. "Please," he says, and he waits for the wisecrack, but Dean only heaves a sigh and nods, dropping his head back against the wall.
"Okay?"
"Yeah, Sammy. Okay."
::
They run in the dark. Once, twice. No more than that, but those times, they let loose, laughing and yelling like children. They race around the house, to the crumbling barn, chase each other to the fence and back, stumbling and rolling in the overgrown grass, their breath heavy and the air summer-wet.
They trip and fall, scrape their palms and let pebbles dig into their backs. Sam grips his brother's shirt in one dirty hand, too tight, pulling him in.
"Wait," he whispers against Dean's jaw, and outside the tracks, the thunder cracks and sparks.
"Wait."
It's the best they can do.
::
Jo comes to visit once. Says she got the address from Bobby, and she brings them hard liquor and porn, hands it over in a brown paper bag without a word, just a smile. Dean stares at her, open-mouthed, like she's the most considerate, kind-hearted person he's ever met in his life.
They sit out on the porch, feet dangling over the edge in places where the railing's been torn off and away.
"You going crazy yet?"
"Fuck," he laughs, spreading his hands. It's not an answer, but she gets it. She nudges the bottle of Jack across the curling wood and into his hand.
She shrugs her shoulders. "It's all going to be over, soon."
He drinks. Lets it burn his throat. He cranes his neck when he swallows, throws his head back so he can see the light in the bedroom window. He thinks he can hear the turning pages of old books.
"Yeah," he agrees, setting the bottle down with a thick clunk. "One way or another."
::
When it gets close, Sam won't let him say goodbye.
He spends that last week cutting Dean off every time he opens his mouth. Shoving a drink in his hands across the table, pushing him up against the wall and pulling at his shirt. Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't call him on it.
"S'gonna be okay," Sam tells him, over and over, hot against the shell of his ear. "I promise. I promise. I'll work out fine."
::
Dean wakes on the last day to an empty house and a missing car.
Sam comes back past midnight, bleeding and sweaty, out of breath and leaning on Bobby for support as he stumbles up the crooked steps.
"It's done," he says, and he spits into the dying, trampled grass by the walk. He smiles, blood in his teeth. "We sent her back where she belongs. It's over."
Over. The same thing they've said so many times before, pushing and shoving and pulling together, skin spit blood, that desperate need to know, alive alive alive. Same reassurances, same promises, but Dean shakes his head, smile splitting open and a laugh rolling on through.
"No," he says, eyes fixed on the window, grinning. "It's starting."
::
They leave the very next day. Pack up their few belongings in the trunk of the car and go.
The car shudders over the railroad tracks and then smoothes out once they hit the pavement, flat and open.
On the horizon, splinters of lightning rip open the heavy grey morning.
They drive.